Private Ponderings
by Schmiezi
Summary: Sherlock Holmes is in love. It had taken him an inexcusable amount of time to figure it out, but in his defence it must be said that (a) it is extremely hard to deduce oneself and (b) never having been in love before he is completely new to the feeling.
1. Private Pondering

Private Pondering

**Note: Once upon a time there was a wonderful Sherlock forum (bbcsherlock at boardhost****, just in case you were wondering). On this forum there was a game, called the Alphabet game. It was more or less self-explanatory. You chose a topic, and then you made a list of words. Like "All the things Mycroft could manipulate": awards, bus routes, Champions League ...You surely got the point. **

**One topic was "Things Sherlock likes about John". Blame it on our Johnlocked minds that the letter "P" made it … er ... hard for us to remain decent. Thanks to our wonderful mod, the harmless word "Passwords (it's so much fun deducing them)" was posted, but the letter P kept spinning around inside our brains.**

**In the end there was a list of 53 things Sherlock likes about John, all starting with a P.**

**They are all part of this little one-shot now, plus a few extras I came up with while writing. I thought it would be a funny little fic, but it ended up kind of bitter sweet. Hope you enjoy it!**

Sherlock Holmes is in love.

It had taken him an inexcusable amount of time to figure it out, but in his defence it must be said that (a) it is extremely hard to deduce oneself and (b) never having been in love before he is completely new to the feeling.

He is love with the only man worth it. There is no reason to love a lesser man than him, really.

Sherlock is in love with the only man in the world who manages to be his friend. The only man who giggles when you sit in Buckingham Palace wearing only a bed sheet. The only man who manages to keep his patience when you nearly burn the kitchen to ashes during an experiment. The only man who ever hesitates when you tell him to punch you in the face.

The only man who likes you the way you are.

The day Sherlock realises he is in love starts quite boringly. John refuses to shoot a pistol inside the apartment so Sherlock can analyse the powder burns on his hands. He also refuses to shoot it outside the apartment because of the pouring rain.

Sherlock sulks for an appropriate amount of time and then drags them both to the piano bar where be hopes to find members of a Polish smuggler gang. Then everything goes wrong and John nearly gets shot. Oh, he tends to be on the receiving end of threats to get shot, nothing new there. But this time it is close. There are no threats, no demands, just a scared juvenile gang member who aims at the head and shoots almost instantly.

Sherlock dives for John, pushing him out of the way. They both end up safely on the floor. John assumes that Sherlock has calculated the whole motion through, that he has known exactly how hard and when exactly he had to push him to get them both out of harm's way.

That poor deduction is wrong. Sherlock has not thought about it at all, and the second he moved in front of the gun he was sure that he was going to die. Only that it would not have mattered, because John would have lived. Realising that he nearly gave his life for John shakes him more than realising he nearly died.

From there it is only a small step really to finally understanding the butterflies in his stomach whenever John approaches him in the kitchen.

Sherlock needs two days to get used to the fact that he is in love with John Watson. He would have accepted having a crush on him. He would have accepted wanting him physically. But love? He ponders it again and again, even tries to blame it on John's pheromones, but there is no denying it. It is love.

He spends another three days to find out what exactly it is that makes him love John. He considers everything that is impressive about the doctor: his caring, his smile, his absurd patriotism, his humour, his wonderful eyes, his incomprehensible preference for Sherlock, his plainness, his loyalty, his honesty, his strange faith in Sherlock, his devotion, his energy, his courage, his optimism, his nose, his understanding, his warmth.

Sherlock spends hours and hours to figure out which of these he loves the most and fails in the end. He simply loves the whole package. What a peculiar notion!

Sherlock writes music for John. Of course he never tells him. It is a lovely tune and quite long. It is just like John: positive and playful. It is not the kind of music you play to chase your best friend's nightmares away after 4 a.m. For that you need Tchaikovsky or Mozart. It is the kind of music you play when John is busy in the kitchen or writing his blog.

It is a tune that could be played as a duet for violin and clarinet.

It is John's favourite piece at the moment. "What is it?" he asks one evening. The evening sun is shining into the room and gives John's hair the colour of a field of barley in the autumn sun. It makes John's face soft and brings peace to 221b. It makes Sherlock want to write poetry on the colour of John's hair.

But he is not a poet, so instead he introduces another theme to the song, one that speaks of all the unexpectedly soft feelings Sherlock gets when thinking of John's hair. The tempo changes from allegro to presto when Sherlock starts to wonder if John's pubic hair colour is that fascinating, too.

"What is it?" John asks again. "Vivaldi," Sherlock lies.

John falls into his soldier mode only seldom, but it is plain to see that Sherlock loves every single time it happens. He gets aroused when John pulls rank on that young soldier at the Baskerville Research Facility. Apparently he is attracted to John's power play.

Sherlock replays the scene in his head later. Then he imagines John pulling rank on him. He stares at his pre-come-erection in amazement. Never had imagination triggered such a reaction from his body. Pre-orgasmic fantasies have not been something he had conjured up until that day.

But then, orgasms have not been something he had conjured up before John. Still, here he is, lying in his bed, thinking of John even during his post-orgasmic bliss. He is panting and wondering how thinking of John could have turned a solitary hand-job into pleasure.

Sherlock divides his life into three parts. The first is pre-John. A dark and isolated time, filled with rejection and drug abuse and instability. But not with loneliness. There had been no loneliness before John because Sherlock never knew there was anything else than being alone.

The second part is inter-John. A delightful time of being understood and having a friend and playing Cluedo and refraining from deleting primary school knowledge of the solar system because John would make fun of it.

A time of politeness (Sherlock never considered giggling at crime scenes impolite before, but then he barely ever giggled pre-John at all) and a time of simplicity (how could Sherlock have known that sitting in the living room together, without talking, just reading or researching or writing their blogs or watching telly could be perfection?).

It is a time of remembering to pull the plug of the bath tub after the experiment so John will not stumble into the bathroom and find the tub filled with pigs' blood again. To Sherlock's surprise it is a time of doing things and avoiding doing things for John's sake.

It is also a rare time of having a permanent address, because it really is John who does all the apologizing to Mrs Hudson. She is fond of Sherlock, maybe even as much as Sherlock is fond of her, but she would have drawn the line after Sherlock had been forced to store all the patellae in her fridge because their own had been filled with perineum muscles.

The third time will be post-John of course.

Sometimes Sherlock thinks that post-John will start because of a bullet or a knife or a rope or a slip when jumping from one rooftop to the other or a car he will see too late. These thoughts always force Sherlock to curl up on the sofa, pretending to be sick, so John would pity him and take care of him until Sherlock feels brave enough to face his thoughts again without trembling.

Sometimes he thinks that it will start when John leaves him because he cannot stand Sherlock any longer. Never is Sherlock closer to relapse than on those days.

Most of the time he knows it will start when he will be forced to leave John.

One day they are standing at a crime scene. Inside a lift. Sherlock is highly claustrophobic, but that is nobody's business and he has never told anyone. Nobody has ever found it out, not even Mycroft.

One glance at him and John knows. His protectiveness over Sherlock seems to be endless. As if Sherlock is the rare, precious one and not John.

One glance at Sherlock, and John knows. He ushers everyone else out of the lift and stands as far away from Sherlock without mentioning it. Which is a pity, really, because John standing close to him was the only thing that made the narrowness of the lift bearable. Maybe because it made Sherlock thinking of public sex for a second.

To get his mind away from his claustrophobia Sherlock starts to wonder how petting inside an unbearably small lift would feel. Would it be a mixture of pleasure and fear?

When the next wave of unwanted panic makes the walls come closer, Sherlock busies his phobic mind with imagining the ten-best-ways-to-have-sex-with-John inside the lift. He ranks it according how easily the position would allow him to stimulate John's prostate and how soon it would make Sherlock close his eyes in lust so he could forget the closeness of the lift.

Could his phobia be treated with sex? Sherlock doubts it. But could it be treated with John? Most likely. Everything could.

There are only two people in the world that know about Sherlock's feelings for John. Neither of them is John.

John will never love Sherlock. How could he? How could a person as good and pure as the doctor love someone like Sherlock Holmes? It is impossible, and it will not happen. That is why Sherlock sees no need to tell him about his feelings.

The one person to know is Mycroft, that prick. How a phlegmatic person like him can understand such an energetic concept like love is completely beyond Sherlock. But Mycroft knows.

Knew it even before Sherlock did. Sherlock hates him for that, of course. He hates that Mycroft knows. And he hates that Mycroft will be the one who will have known once it is over and Sherlock is left alone. And he _will_ be left alone, you can take that for granted.

Because the second person to know is Jim Moriarty. Had known it at the pool, back when Sherlock had had only a vague idea of his own feelings. Moriarty proclaimed that he would burn Sherlock's heart out one day. Which means one day he will try to kill John or to drive them apart.

He calls John Sherlock's "pet", reduces him to Sherlock's live-in P.A. verbally, but understands exactly what goes on within Sherlock's soul.

One day, Sherlock will be forced to leave John to save the life of the only person he will ever love. One way or another. He will not tell John that leaving him will be for his own good because John would never allow that. He will just leave him and lose him in doing so.

Sherlock considers taking one of John's jumpers with him once the time comes. Or a pair of his red pants.

He never considers the possibility that John will take him back afterwards. John is practical and down-to-earth. He will understand why Sherlock will have been forced to leave. But he is also proud. He will understand, but not forgive.

Sherlock knows that he will deal his domestic peace and happiness for John's life. It will be a fair bet.

One day there is the most lovely murder at a flat at Portobello Road. It is a closed room mystery, one of Sherlock's favourites. The victim could not have done it himself, but there is also no way the murderer could have left the room because the windows are locked from within and so is the door.

Sherlock always hopes for these, he longs for them because solving them always impresses John the most. But this time, Sherlock is distracted, and he does not fully comprehend why.

It cannot be due to the fact that the naked victim is tied to the bed with purple plush handcuffs. It cannot be due to the fact that John's corners of the mouth twitch upward a little at the sight of the used pink preservative lying on the ground, telling a tale of penetration and lust. Only in a very pink way.

The whole room screams homosexual-kink much too loudly to be true. Still, it takes Sherlock a whole ten minutes to figure out that there had been far too much preparation to stage the murder. The victim was not gay, neither is the murderer.

Apparently, it had been the brother-in-law, after finding out about the victim regularly frequented (female) prostitutes. He had locked the door from the outside using a crafting wire, could nobody see the scratch marks at the bottom of the door, Sherlock wondered aloud.

It is a seriously, deadly crime scene, but it is way too pink and purple to remain serious. "What a sad example of post-coital tristesse," Sherlock hisses into John's ear, and they can do only so much not to giggle loudly. "Gives the expression petit mort a whole new meaning," John hisses back.

It should not be funny, but it is. Lestrade looks like he wants to punch them, so the pair of them retreat rather quickly after solving the case. On their way out of the "gay" flat Sherlock briefly wonders if he is gay. No, he clearly is not. If he has to be anything, he is Johned.

Sometimes Sherlock does puppy-dog eyes on John without him realising it. For some reason that Sherlock cannot deduce it works better when he is wearing his purple shirt.

John never does puppy-dog eyes on Sherlock. He has another way of reaching Sherlock. There is a certain expression on his face, mixed with a certain tone of his voice, that makes Sherlock do so instantly whatever John demands. It is in the way he says "Not here, it's a crime scene!" or "Sherlock, timing!"

It is John's way of telling Sherlock how to behave, but not because Sherlock is defective, but because John cares and he wants other people to like Sherlock better because he believes Sherlock can be a good person and all that without putting any pressure on Sherlock.

When John uses that tone, Sherlock's palpitations intensify right away, and he does what John wants almost without thinking. He knows that if John would ever do it on purpose he would be in trouble, for there is no way of resisting.

But John does not know. He only sometimes wonders why Sherlock listens to him.

If only Sherlock would dare to deduce if John Watson loved him back. It would be so easy to find out. Stand close to him. Talk to him in a low voice. Accidentally touch his hand. And then: Just observe his pupils. Are they dilated? And then: Just check his pulse: Is it elevated? And then, just to make sure: Press your back against his pelvis for some reason. Check out how his private parts feel in your back. Does his penis become erect?

If only he would dare to deduce if John Watson loved him back.

But Sherlock never does that. Why would he?


	2. Endless Endearing

**Endless Endearing**

**Well, here we go again. This is beginning to be kind of a series of stand-alone stories. They will all be Johnlock, all dedicated to word lists where all words start with the same letter.** **I don't think I need to tell you which letter was used to create the word list this time. ;-)**

John Watson is in love.

It takes him about five minutes to find out. He would have realised it quicker had the person in question been a woman. But it is the first time he feels attracted to a man and thus needs a moment or two to identify the feeling.

He is in love with the only man in the world whose enthusiasm for serial killers is effusive. The only man who steals an ashtray at Buckingham Palace just to make you laugh. The only man who stays up to play the violin in the middle of the night because you are likely to have a nightmare. The only man who manages to look good in a hat with ear-flaps.

John is in love with the most eminent friend he ever had.

He falls in love the first time they meet. He is hurt and alone and devastated and isolated, and not at all looking for love. Yet he falls instantly for this elegant man who easily sees through all the walls John has erected around himself.

Halfway through their first day together they end up having the most awkward conversation about dating John has ever been through.

By the end of the day John kills a man to save Sherlock's life anyway.

At first John thinks that Sherlock knows about his feelings. How could he not? With all the extraordinary deductions he always sputters out with ease, how can he not see how John starts to flush when Sherlock impresses him with his eloquence?

How can he not notice the eerie look on John's face when he thinks that Sherlock has caught him wondering about the peculiar colour of Sherlock's eyes? How can he not notice why John never minds him violating his private space? How can he not notice John is finding excuses to touch?

But Sherlock never comments on it. And it should be impossible for him not to deduce John's feelings, not to read him like an open book. So, all-in-all it is sad but clear that Sherlock knows, but does not share John's feelings. Right?

One day, John nearly dies. Once more. Nothing dramatic, just an angry thief caught in the act, with a rope he winds around John's throat when Sherlock is still in the entrance, looking for clues.

Before he fully realises what is happening, John cannot breathe. He hears himself wheezing and tries to break free but the thief is two heads taller than him and so much stronger, that John does not stand a chance.

At first he commands himself to remain calm, knowing that Sherlock is only a few metres away and will surely come to the rescue soon. But then his lungs start to burn and there is a shrill beeping in his ears, and he watches his hand losing its grip on his opponent and his vision dims, and for a few excruciating seconds he panics, feeling utterly helpless, wondering if he is dying now.

By the time Sherlock knocks the man out, John is barely conscious.

He drops to the floor like dead weight, gasping for air, his vision all blurred. The only thing he sees clearly is the expression on Sherlock's face when he bends over John. A clear indicator that John's feelings are definitely not one-sided.

Later, when they are home, Sherlock claims to be ill. He curls up on the sofa and demands attention and care. Mrs Hudson huffs at him, telling him that he should rather take care for poor John who nearly died today.

John does not huff. He sees the hidden fear in Sherlock's eyes. He understands, as always, sees all the emotions Sherlock claims not to have but from which he is unable to divorce himself. He sees how the whole experience has shaken Sherlock to the bones. He sees Sherlock's love for him and wonders if Sherlock also knows that he is in love with John.

Most likely not. Otherwise he would have told John so, wouldn't he?

Sometimes John feels like Sherlock is an elemental force that happens to him. When Sherlock gets ecstatic about a murder, John gets dragged into his maelstrom. Sherlock is all energy and euphoria, and they enter the most gruesome crime scene together without a moment's hesitation.

When Sherlock is like that, John needs an extreme amount of will-power to prevent himself from getting an erection.

Of course, Sherlock's endurance during cases is not only admirable, but also worrisome. No matter how much John is drawn along, no matter how willingly he stumbles after Sherlock, he never forgets to take care. Not after that one time, when Sherlock nearly collapsed in a client's barbers after following one lead or another for four days in a row.

From that day on, John always makes sure that among the obscure equipment Sherlock carries in his coat pockets (screwdrivers, a pen, chalk, sometimes John's gun) there is always a packet of glucose tablets, too. Sherlock stubbornly takes it out whenever he finds it. John stubbornly puts it back in whenever Sherlock pays no attention.

Sometimes John feels like Sherlock is the safe haven he has always longed for. He knows that no-one can imagine it, but they _do_ have quiet days at 221b, with hanging around lazily and just enjoying each other's company. Those are the days when they are both easygoing and happy.

It is a quiet day when Sherlock playfully complains about John's taste in music and applies his earphones to the bison skull to demonstrate that nobody, really nobody around wants to listen to Element of Crime any longer.

It is a quiet day when Sherlock thinks for twenty minutes that educating John in playing the violin is a good idea. It is not, of course, John could have told Sherlock so before. After all, there was a reason why John had stopped playing the clarinet age ten. But the way Sherlock stands behind him to adjust his elbows is absolutely worth the endless stream of comments on John's ineptitude that inevitably follows.

It is a quiet day, when they plan to place human eyes in the microwave at the Yard to shock Donovan.

It is a quiet day, when they do nothing but hanging around in the living room, John writing his blog, Sherlock reading a book on bee-keeping, that John gets the chance to observe Sherlock's face without him noticing.

He watches those beautiful eyelashes, that delicately curved lips, his chin, and wonders what it would be like to touch those cheekbones, those eyebrows. He longs to touch Sherlock badly, the yearning in his groin intensifying with every passing minute. He knows that he will think about them again when he ejaculates tonight.

For the first time in his life, John loves the quiet days, just as much as he loves the excitement living with Sherlock brings.

John is painfully aware of Sherlock's earth-shattering sexiness.

He spends hours and hours in bed, imagining to press kisses on that delicate spot on Sherlock's neck or right behind his earlobes. He imagines kissing Sherlock to ecstasy. Strangely enough, he never imagines them having sex, only kisses and caresses.

He does not consider himself a erotomaniac, but he is surely no erotophobic either. He normally is really good in imagining having sex of all kinds. He has just never been in bed with a man before and thus does not quite know what to dream of. But he dreams of everything that could lead to finding out.

He spends hours and hours wondering what exactly it is that attracts him to Sherlock physically. Is it the exotic touch to his face? The way he looks in his exquisite coat, in his expensive shirts, in his eggplant-coloured suit, in everything he wears? ("Please, John, obviously it's not eggplant. It's Byzantium," Sherlock huffs when John dares to mention the suit in a totally non-sexual context.)

It must be the ebony curls, John decides when a case brings them to the coast, where the wind ruffles Sherlock's hair and makes him look young and reckless and where the sight of the coast bring a smile on Sherlock's face.

Or his enigmatic personality, John thinks, when he watches Sherlock investigating a case at The Globe, hopping on and off the stage, coat flapping, eyes burning with eagerness and intelligence.

It must be his existence in general, John decides when a case brings them to a rubbish dump and they end up dirty and smelly and Sherlock still manages to look enticing in John's eyes.

John is painfully aware of Sherlock's earth-shattering sexiness. Sherlock is not. He is also totally unaware of the effect he has on John.

One case brings them to a fantasy convention at Battersea. John tries to prepare Sherlock for what he is about to see, but, as always, he does not listen. When they walk through the entrance hall of the hotel, Sherlock stops dead and surveys the obscure assembly of fairies, orks and dwarfs. The corners of his mouth drop slightly, his disdain clearly visible.

John thinks it is funny to watch Sherlock Holmes being surrounded by all these strange creatures, trying to make them give clear evidence despite their strange outfits, and thinks that it would make a really funny blog entry. His enthusiasm is drastically reduced when he realises how much all those elves seem to fall for Sherlock.

Two of them are already emulating his elegant movements, others are eyeing him from the far. Orks on the other hand seem to be completely unimpressed by Sherlock's extravagance. Probably because Sherlock is so much like an elf himself, John muses, thinking of his esthetic features, his unearthly skin, his beautiful eyes.

When John overhears one of their conversations about Sherlock, he is sure he heard them voicing the desire to do things to him that would sooner or later lead to "quivering flanks".

"I wish I had your epidermis," one of the elves sighs, instead of telling Sherlock what he has seen two hours before. "I'm sure you wouldn't have to epilate your legs to wear my costume." "Effeminate bastard," John thinks. He has never been jealous before. Now he is.

Sherlock is absolutely unaware of the effect he has on the elves. When he needs a prop to solve the case, he commands one of them: "Give me the elastic band off your ..." Both he and John start to blink rapidly when the young elf reaches for his pants. "... feather headdress." Sherlock concludes drily, completely ignoring the embarrassing half-dressed state the elf is in now.

On their way out, Sherlock states "I wonder why this event attracts so many men with erectile dysfunctions?" and John's emotional balance is restored. He grins widely and mentions: "You would make a perfect elf." Needless to say the rest of the day is filled with comments on what kind of creature John would be, none of them flattering, but all good-hearted.

Sometimes Sherlock seems to forget that John exists.

He sits in his arm chair or lies on the sofa, in his mind erecting a scaffold of evidence for the current case, and John can look at him for hours without being caught staring.

Sometimes something strikes Sherlock's mind in the middle of a discussion, and his eyes go blank, no longer aware of the fact that John is still sitting next to him. In the beginning of their flat-sharing, John has felt awkwardly left out and, admittedly, a bit hurt.

Later, when he is sure of Sherlock's not yet admitted love, he stops minding those times. Instead of sitting around forlorn and lost, he does all the things he cannot do in Sherlock's present, like watching sci-fi shows. On one day, he manages to watch episodes 1 to 6 of Firefly, including the pilot, without being disturbed and being told what a ridiculous show it is.

He does the groceries when Sherlock is like that. On more than one occasion he comes home to find Sherlock talking to him again, assuming they are still in the middle of the discussion they had started before Sherlock blanked out.

When he is griped at, John patiently explains that it is only thanks to him doing the shopping that they do not starve to death. "Oh, you and your erratic readiness to run errands," Sherlock huffs, not seeing how eating can be more important that listening to him.

One day Sherlock sits over an experiment in the kitchen, emulsifying something or the other, an effervescent fluid placed next to him. It is not one of the entertaining experiments that draw John's attention to the kitchen. It is one of those John does not fully understand, with complicated chemistry.

John cannot help but think how he already is the object of an experiment with complicated chemistry when a glass shatters and something starts to smell. No matter how often that happens, he is always scared to hell, concern for Sherlock racing through his veins instantly.

In the kitchen, he finds Sherlock sitting at the table, looking unperturbed. "You all right?" he asks, but is only rewarded with an annoyed glance. Of course he his. He does not comment on Sherlock's slightly shaking hand, but keeps it in mind. Just in case.

One day later Sherlock insists that his headache and stiff neck result from running around London all night when it's cold and wet outside. When he has to throw up John is glad they are having this en suite bathroom where he holds the curls away while Sherlock chokes.

Later Sherlock drops the mobile he's been fiddling with, and John's heart nearly stops. He stuffs Sherlock into a cab and they are heading to the hospital, no matter how angry Sherlock gets about it.

The trip to the hospital takes nearly an hour. Sherlock, who usually goes from consulting detective to eccentric drama queen in three seconds when only having so much as a cough, is unusually quiet.

"Diabetis melius," John says. "encephalitis, concussion, hepatitis." "Brain tumour," Sherlock says earnestly, and John feels like a weight is sitting on his breast, slowly crushing him. "No" he answers determined and refuses even to think of that.

"He's claustrophobic" John tells the young doctor shortly before the CT, when Sherlock cannot overhear him giving away the consulting detective's secret. During the lumbar puncture, he holds Sherlock's hand, huffing away Sherlock's weak protests. It is not easy to tell who is hurt more by the needle that sinks into Sherlock's spine.

When they are waiting for the results from the lab Sherlock snoozes lightly and John steals himself away for a minute to get some coffee. When he comes back into the hospital room, Sherlock is crying silently, with shaking shoulders. John just sits next to him, stroking his back. No words are spoken, but they do not need words now, anyway.

"A mild form of Encephalitis," the young doctor states later, when John's eyes are tired from the artificial light and his stomach is sour from far too much coffee and his mind is numb from worrying. "There can be long-term complications," Sherlock mumbles instead of being relieved that it is not a brain tumour, and John's patience runs out.

He yells at Sherlock for good five minutes and cannot remember what he has said afterwards. The words "idiot", "emasculating" and "death" might have been used, but he is not sure. Then he pulls Sherlock into a careful embrace.

"It's my brain, John," Sherlock explains later, when they are watching the intravenous fluids dripping into Sherlock's body, "my brain. Who am I if it gets damaged permanently? Who would I be without my eidetic skills, my deductions? Who would still respect me without my abilities?"

"I would," John states the obvious. "Yes," Sherlock presses out, "but who else?" They are silent for a while, and then John adds with a wry smile: "I'm the only one in the world who can stand you anyway. So no big change there!" Sherlock makes a funny sound, a mixture of laughing, crying and grumbling all the same time and John's smile softens.

In the end there are no complications, and Sherlock is discharged from hospital after merely a week. At 221b, Sherlock gives John another wordless embrace. John knows that it means "thank you for caring" and "thank you for being there all the time" and "thank you for getting rid of Mycroft most of the times". John always knows.

Sherlock has elevated insulting stupid people to an art form.

He is an egalitarian when it comes to insults. John is on the receiving end less than other people, but not completely left out. Other people never understand why he does not find it more enervating. But then, other people also never understand what it means that John can call Sherlock an idiot and be acknowledged for it by him.

Other people fail to understand many things about John's and Sherlock's relationship. One of the people that fails to understand it's true nature is Sherlock, which is funny, because one would think that his enormous ego would make him very open to the idea of someone loving him.

But Sherlock is not exactly emphatic and the very thought that John likes him seems to need weeks to develop in Sherlock's mind. Sometimes, when the moments with Sherlock are most enjoyable, John tells him. He mentions the giggles, the wordless understanding, the domestic bliss.

In the beginning, Sherlock responds with a sarcastic remark to hide his delight. Later, he seems to accept that being with him can be highly entertaining, even if exclusively for John.

Sherlock is also not as self-loving as others might believe. He sees his own flaws just like he sees the flaws of others, and he is a true Egalitarian when it comes to insults. John bets that Sherlock is even harsher to himself than to Anderson. The idea that he could be lovable just never occurs to Sherlock. He probably still thinks John likes taking him eating out at Angelo's every now and then because of his everlasting fondness for the lasagne there.

Around John's birthday Sherlock seems to write an etude for John that he embellishes every time he plays it. He never mentions it, but wakes John up playing it on his birthday with breathtaking excellence and exactitude, otherwise claiming not to know what day it is.

When John asks him about it, Sherlock gets evasive and pretends that it is Vivaldi. John feels loved anyway. If he could only make Sherlock realise that.

The whole Irene Adler thing shakes John more than he would like to admit. It is her intellectual equality with Sherlock that leaves John painfully aware of the fact that he is by no means equal. He watches the banter between them, trying to keep his irrational hurt at bay.

One evening in November, when the forty-fifth text is indicated by that awful sound, he gets peeved. They are interrogating a university professor for another case, and she is charming Sherlock, probably to get out of the tight spot. Sherlock seems to flirt back, and afterwards John snaps: "What, are you going to have an excessively erotic relationship now with everyone clever you meet?"

Sherlock looks at him in amazement, taken by surprise. "Apparently not," he answers calmly, staring at John with these intense eagle-eyed glance, "I didn't start an erotic relationship with you yet, did I?"

It takes John a while to realise that this is a compliment. It takes him even longer to realise that Sherlock has said "not _yet_".

John never tells Sherlock he loves him. He also never tells him that he knows Sherlock loves him, too. He thinks that he is going to wait until Sherlock finally figures it out himself and is ready to establish a relationship. He thinks they will have all the time in the world for Sherlock's epiphany to happen. He thinks they will have eternity to straighten it up.

Only that they do not.

The wrong series of cases, stupid photos of Sherlock wearing the ear-hat, a doubt, a handcuffed escape from the police, a call from a rooftop. And then all is shattered. John's world is filled with bloodied curls and empty eyes.

Later, John wonders if he should mention at least some of the things he loves so much about Sherlock in his eulogy. He thinks about it on the way to the chapel, he thinks about it during the brief ceremony.

The stops thinking about it when the coffin is lowered. He knows that he should stand up now and hold the elaborate speech he carries inside his pocket. He should stand up now and tell the world how much he still loves Sherlock, that he is burying so much more today than just his best friend.

But John never does that. Why would he?


	3. Crestfallen

**Summary: There is a new feeling, one Sherlock does not know. It takes him three days to identify it. He is crestfallen.**

**Notes: This time, there were 113 words starting with a C that needed to be in the story. Many of them had to do with crying. Poor Sherlock!**

**Crestfallen**

Sherlock's memories of the fifteen month of his hiatus are painfully clear. Every detail, every second for ever engraved on his brain. He thinks about deleting most of it, about **cleaning** his hard-drive of this mess, but refrains from it, because he needs to tell John about it afterwards. He needs to tell him everything, so John can understand. If he will ever listen to Sherlock again, that is.

* * *

The fact that Sherlock cares for his friends is not a revelation he has while standing on the rooftop of St. Bart's. He knows it weeks, months ahead, when the plan to **challenge Moriarty and his network** is nothing more than a vague sketch. He knows that the pool incident has been nothing but a test. A test Sherlock failed by showing Moriarty how deeply he **cared** for John. Throwing the FBI man out of the window has furthermore proved that, for those he cares about, Sherlock is **capable of doing everything**.

He **cries real tears** up on that roof, knowing his next step will separate him from John for a long time. Sentiment is merely a **chemical defect,** he knows. Yet, he also knows that he can not stop loving John. He hesitates, already knowing that he will **not be able to cope with being cut off from John**. He listens to his voice on the phone, sees him standing down there, and hesitates.

Then he imagines John dropping to the ground, hit in the head by a sniper, and **a strange calm** rises inside of him. He jumps. His plan is **cunning** and brilliant, of course, and it all works out perfectly.

Still, afterwards he wishes he could delete John's reactions. He tries, very hard, but it does not work. He would like to delete the broken sound of John's voice, the broken look in his eyes. He would like to delete the fact that John needs medication afterwards. He would like to delete the video footage from the clinic, showing John, slack in Harriet's arms. But he cannot.

Then he decides to **clutch** those painful memories, for they give him the drive he needs to **challenge Moriarty's network.**

One thing Sherlock never wants to delete is how John punches Mycroft at the morgue. Who would have thought that John could swear THAT strong? Not that Mycroft deserves it, his **cooperation** with Sherlock on faking his death is exemplary. Still, Sherlock cannot stop himself from feeling strangely proud of John when he sees his brother's swollen face afterwards.

During the first few days Sherlock **cringes** a bit every time he thinks of John. John, who does not know that Sherlock is still alive. Who does not know that Sherlock is actively saving John's life by being dead.

Then he sees him again at the funeral and his **confidence** returns. Sherlock watches, disguised as a member of the homeless network, how John stands next to his coffin, upright and calm, shaken but obviously unbroken. Sherlock knows that he watches a man who will get over it, sooner or later. Why does that not make him feel like **celebrating**?

But anyway, John will be fine, apparently. He continues his life at 221b, gets up every morning, eats enough and basically **keeps calm and carries on**, or so Sherlock's informants tell him. Sherlock can start **crushing Moriarty's network **before the first week after his death is over, and he can do so without worrying about John too much.

* * *

At first it is glorious. There is a **clash of options** on where to strike first. Sherlock **catches** one member of the network after another at breathtaking speed, right in front of the **CID** officers or whatever they are called in all those God forsaken countries. He, **shows courage** and superior intelligence. He feels brilliant, like a **champion**, like nothing can stop him. He never stays long enough to watch them being brought to the holding cell, never follows their trials at **court**.

In his mind, he tells John about it, and John is all admiration and marvel. Sherlock feels a **clarity of mind** he has last felt when taking **cocaine**.

He travels from **China** to **Canada** so often it feels like merely **commuting**.

And they fall so easily, never knowing who hit them. Sherlock is all confident and **clever**, **cocking a snook at Moriarty's people**.

He cannot wear the **coat**, cannot** conceal his cheekbones behind its collar**, but in his mind there is the swirling sensation when he runs around a corner anyway, and he is dazzling and magnificent and splendid, all **charisma** and elegance. And all the time, before he turns in for the night, or while he is sitting on a plane, or when he is waiting motionless for hours to make his move, he thinks of John, and of his admiration and his support.

* * *

Then he slows down. Is slowed down. With most of the network crushed, only the most persistent members left, the gaps between action gets longer. Unfortunately, that means more time for boredom. More time to be **concerned about John**.

He is surprised when he feels himself **craving** for John's **company** after merely six weeks. Without John, Sherlock feels **cold inside**, even when he tracks down scum in Cairo.

Without John by his side, he no longer **feels cheerful**. Which is funny, for Sherlock has not been aware of the fact that he has been cheerful. But without John, he suddenly realises that he has been, and no longer is.

Without John, Sherlock tries to enjoy the liberty of **calling everybody **around him **names** without being silenced by The John Glance. He smokes **cigarettes**, is **cruel** to waitresses, insults idiotic people. Does all the little things he stopped doing because John would have disapproved. It is not half as satisfying as it used to be.

Without John, he fells like **catarrh and chickenpox coming on** at the same time. Sherlock is so much more in danger of getting lost than he imagined he would be. And the thought, the knowledge that John is fine, is coping, is carrying on, is both frightening and life-saving at the same time. He fights over this contradiction for a while, and the concern for John's well-being wins.

Because Sherlock is lonely, yes, but John needs to be, has to be all right. If he were not, it would destroy Sherlock, more profoundly than Moriarty could have done it. It is a caring notion, one Sherlock is not used to. It **challenges** the opinion he has of himself.

* * *

One month of way-too-slow-progress merges into the next. Sherlock's sense of time is completely malfunctioning. He changes his identities, **changes his clothes**, his hair colour so often he loses track.

He is **cautious not to be seen anywhere**. Sometimes he wears a decent **coat with collar turned up**, sometimes he **changes into cycling shorts combined with cowboy boots** to hide in plain sight.

Sherlock **avoids company**. Not only to remain unseen, but also because he cannot stop himself from comparing every single person he meets to John. Everyone looks **cheap** compared to him.

* * *

One day in autumn, Mycroft sends him a letter John has written to him. It was obviously written down in anger, torn apart with desperation, retrieved from the rubbish bin after two hours, glued back together by one of Mycroft's minions.

In it, John tells Mycroft to** clear off **and stop using **CCTV cameras** to follow him. He also tells him how guilty he feels about Sherlock's death, and Sherlock is struck when he reads it. There is pain in it, and desperation and grief.

For a second, Sherlock allows himself to believe that John is hurt so much more that he thought, and this idea nearly drives Sherlock **crazy** instantly. With an enormous amount of will-power, he pushes this feeling back, deduces the letter more carefully. John has torn it apart. Because he has not wanted anyone to read it. Because he did not feel the things he mentioned in it. They were only written in a moment of desperation, after a sleepless night, judging from the strokes of the t.

John. Is. Fine.

* * *

The dreams hit him by surprise. They are domestic and harmless and nearly sweet.

In one, John and he are having a **candlelight dinner at Angelo's** that Sherlock forgot to **cancel.** They just hang around there and talk and eat. First, they talk about Sherlock's teenage years, how he had **considered a career as a chemist, or a cemetery keeper, or even a cabbie**. Sherlock **continues to** **complain about the criminal classes**, and John listens. Whenever their eyes meet, John smiles. That is it.

In another one, Sherlock forgets to **cancel his subscription of body parts from Bart's**. He is **charged** for three arms and a torso he does not need, and John complains about it for half-an-hour. Then he starts to giggle, and everything is all right again. That is it.

In another one, Sherlock sits at Mycroft's diner table with John, both of them watching his brother wearing a **crown** for some reason, **consuming lots of cake, custard, chicken, cheese, candy and celery and becoming corpulent**. John mentions the fact that Mycroft might blow up, and they laugh so hard it annoys the hell out of fat Mycroft. That is it.

Every time Sherlock wakes up from those dreams, a **certain organ aches**. He is fairly sure that it is **his heart**.

* * *

Sherlock spends Christmas somewhere in South America. A mistake, he soon realises. Should have spent it in a non-christian country, without **choirs singing hymns** on how lovely it is to love each other.

There is barely another time of the year when so many people get depressed. He wishes he were still as** cold-hearted **as he used to be pre-John. Molly sends him a text, saying "Merry X-mass".

"**Christmas is cancelled until further notice**" he writes back, hating how often he remembers last Christmas, with that absurd jumper and the terribly annoying good mood. Hating how he is already thinking about the fact that he will spend New Year's Eve alone, too. As if that would matter.

When spring comes Sherlock feels so lonely that he **chats with Molly **voluntarily. But whenever they talk, over some secret **channels**, there is always something odd about her. Not because she bores him with stories about Lestrade. Something that has to do with John. But Sherlock does not feel **courageous** enough to explore that topic. John meets her and Lestrade regularly. Good. John is fine. Full-stop. No need to explore further.

And that Mary Morstan she mentions is surely not more important than Sarah and Jeanette and all the other **colourless** women in John's life have been. She may **charm** John an cheer him up a little, but Sherlock will easily scare her away, will **cleanse** John's life of her by being his **cocky**, **cheeky** self when he **comes back**.

* * *

Spring turns into early summer.

Sherlock feels **carsick** from travelling across Canada once too often. He feels **claustrophobic**, like buried inside a **coffin**, when he sits in a cheap motel room, in a **city** whose name he will have forgotten again this time tomorrow. Wishing he had at least found a way to smuggle the **Union Jack cushion **out of 221b. Pretending it is the only comfortable cushion in the world. In reality longing for something that smells of John.

Sometimes he feels like he is **condemned** to live like this forever, feeling **cold** and homeless. "A case, I need a case," he thinks. A good, solid, ordinary case. In London. With John by his side. He does not need a case. He needs his old life.

He feels the wish to **caress** John, which is funny, for there has never been any caressing between them, so why does he feel like he is missing it now?

He thinks about **coitus** with John more often than he should. He tries to relieve himself, but whenever he gets** close to climax**, shortly before he **comes**, the loneliness he tries to keep at bay overwhelms him, his **cock** reacting instantly, the time he spent on building it up a waste of time once more.

He hides in **cellars**, **cavities**, empty houses, train wagons, one time even in a **crevice** somewhere in Alaska, **chilled to the bones **by the cold northern summer rain. He spends the time with making plans for the future. No, that word is too small, for the future he has in mind for John and himself. He develops, he **creates plans for the future**. They are glorious and exciting and strangely domestic.

In June **conceals himself in a coat check room of the Caring Cross station**, waiting to take down one more part of Moriarty's net, one of the last left. He has to wait for a long time, and in the meantime allows himself to fantasise about how John figures it all out by himself. How he **comes up with the brilliant solution** of how Sherlock survived the fall.

Afterwards, when he sits in yet another lonely hotel room, he realises that John is not thinking about that, because he is sure that Sherlock is dead.

Mycroft meets John every once in a while now. He never gives Sherlock details about their talks. Instead, he sends photographs, one for each meeting. John looks calm.

Sherlock would never admit it, but he **cries a lot** these days.

* * *

One day, he gets a surprising email from John. He quickly identifies it as a goodbye letter, as suggested in every better mourning guidebook. It is written without deep feelings, just to please the reader. That being Mary, apparently, not Sherlock. Normally, thinking of Mary leaves Sherlock **cantankerous**.

But with the email, John tells them how he **cherished** the time he had with Sherlock, writes lots of nice things about him, and Sherlock is flattered. He misses John's praise terrible. John describes how glorious it was to **chase after criminals for some clients**, how Sherlock saved him from a mediocre life.

All this hits home, and after reading it four times, Sherlock feels **chivalrous** enough not to mind the final paragraph that thanks Mary for her tireless efforts to care for John.

John writes nothing about being broken or desperate or hopeless. Hence, Sherlock is **cocksure** he was right, John is fine. Everything will be fine between the two of them. Soon.

* * *

Sherlock hates himself for his **clumsy attempts to find comfort**. Most of the time he manages to **chasten** himself and refrains from making his homeless network to spy on John. Ever so often he fails and asks them for videos or photographs.

When did he get this needy anyway? It must be some bizarre **chemical reaction**. And yet, here he is, more than a year after his fall, **contemplatively** sitting in an Australian **cyber-cafe**, with a strange **cramp in his chest**. Checking the link he has got would be imprudent, but in the end the **curiosity about what John does** gets the better of him.

He clicks the link and instantly feels his **callous** façade crumble to dust. Kensington garden, John and that Mary Morstan woman again. Her arm is placed around his waist. They walk down the alley, she pulls him closer again each time he starts to drift away. **Cunt**.

Then the camera angle changes, the person holding the mobile apparently cycling, outpacing the couple, then facing them from the far. It slowly focuses on John's face. While the image is still blurry, Sherlock dreads what he will see. Imagines John smiling at her, lovingly. John admiring her the way he used to admire him. John looking happy. He gets an unpleasant **cramp in his crotch** at the thought of John happy together with Mary.

Then the film comes back into focus, and Sherlock's heart clenches so hard that for a second he is honestly wondering if he is suffering from **cardiac arrest**. John is not looking at her happily, or admiring. Instead, he is broken. So broken he does not even look hurt or lost. Dead.

And Mary cannot see it, obviously. She chats and laughs, and John chats and laughs with her, but the **creases** around his eyes barely move, and his eyes are dead. He is broken. Thoroughly and completely broken. Sherlock feels a **catastrophic** **crash** building up, and only a minimal instinct of self preservation makes him stumble back into his hotel room before giving in to it.

Disgrace adds to pain when he realises he is **crying**. No, howling in pain, like a wounded animal. He **cries even more** when he hears how lost he sounds, how sordid. In his **confusion**, he clings to the only hold he still has. He grabs his mobile and calls his brother, still unable to stop sobbing.

"I've broken him," he blurts out the second his call is answered. On the other end of the line, silence. Then he hears Mycroft's voice, unnaturally soft and warm: "I know. I'm sorry, Sherlock."

* * *

Sherlock has always known that **coming back would be the hardest part** of his hiatus, but he has always imagined that after a while they would resume their friendship, their life. Maybe even turning John's feelings into love.

Now he realises that will not happen. He has broken John by saving him. He will never get a chance to explain himself to John. They will never resume their life at 221b. Sherlock will come back, but John will be gone, even if he is still there.

There is a new feeling, one Sherlock does not know. It takes him three days to identify it. He is c**restfallen. **When he realises it, he stumbles into the bathroom and throws up with revulsion. Then he sags down next to the toilet, too exhausted to crawl back to bed. He stay inside the bathroom the whole night and cries and cries and cries.


	4. Meandering

**Summary**: Without Sherlock, John feels like slowly sinking in quicksand. No, in a marsh. For in his mind, quicksand is always linked to hot climate, and all he feels inside is cold.

**Notes**: 140 words, all starting with M, all merged into John's POV of the hiatus. Enjoy!

**Meandering**

John's memories of the first week are painfully clear. Every detail, every second for ever engraved in his brain. According to Harry's **mourning** guidebooks it is perfectly normal that the first time after a bereavement is accompanied with **memory-loss**. Does that mean John is not normal?

He remembers the street, the blood and the empty eyes. He remembers the wrist with no pulse. He remembers being taken to hospital. He remembers **medication** against his will. He remembers Harry, holding him while he was **mumbling** incoherent sentences. Most of all, he remembers the pain.

He remembers **meeting Mycroft in the morgue**. The punch into Mycroft's face is probably one of the best memories from that time. He is not quite sure if he really called Mycroft a **mangy** **motherfucker**, but he likes to believe he did.

He remembers the funeral. He remembers how he watched when the coffin was lowered, standing by Sherlock's side one last time, completely **motionless**. Wondering if he had any right to do so, as he felt **morally guilty of his death **so intensely it took his breath away. He should have been able to stop him, should he not? Damn, he loved him. Loves. He loves him still.

But that has not been enough.

He remembers every single morning of the first week. He only gets up because** Mrs Hudson **would** minds**. She pours her whole caring energy over John and would not forgive him if he gave up just now. So he does not.

He always has his breakfast in front of the telly, watching the news. He remembers every single newscaster he wants to **murder because they think that Sherlock has been a fake**. Then he gets dressed, tries to do something useful but ends up **messing up the flat**, feeling **maimed** without Sherlock.

He remembers the seventh morning without Sherlock. He got up, went into the kitchen and **made tea – two mugs**, as usual. Then he realises what he just did. This is his last clear memory, the rest of the month is hidden underneath a thick layer of fog.

* * *

John's head is running wild. He is **morbid** and desperate and alone. He feels a **masochistic** pleasure in **memorising Sherlock, memorising every single moment with him.** He recalls every movement and every look on his face and every tone of his voice until the pain takes his breath away. He memorises it so it will always be there to take his breath away.

The guilt he feels is **mind-wrecking**. Or so he hopes. But no matter how well he **memorises everything Sherlock has said to him on the phone**, no matter how hard he remembers his own deficient answers, no matter how often he replays it in his head, he never **loses his mind** for good.

One day he **mooches** around a market and comes across a bookstall. On the cover of a **magazine** he sees Sherlock, the ear-hat covering his curls, an arrogant smile on his lips. He stares at it for what must have been hours, wondering if Sherlock would consider John buying it a **mutiny**.

* * *

Without Sherlock by his side John feels **medium-sized** at best. Mediocre. Unimportant.

Without Sherlock, John finally feels **middle**-**aged**. If not **medieval**. He barely **manages** to look into the **mirror** without thinking about how old he feels. So much older than last year.

Without Sherlock, John feels like slowly sinking in quicksand. No, in a **marsh**. For in his mind, quicksand is always linked to hot climate, and all he feels inside is cold.

* * *

One month **merges** into the next. John's sense of time is completely **malfunctioning**. He moves out of 221b for a while and then back in again, but he could not say how long he has been away. He only knows that returning breaks his heart. Once more.

He looks at the abandoned **magnifier** glasses on the kitchen table, at the **abandoned molecular gastronomy equipment**. He considers using them, but somehow it feels like **molestation**. So he puts everything unused into boxes and places them into Sherlock's empty room.

For a while, he tries to keep up the **multi-tasking** routine, switching from his **job** to tidying up the **flat** to taking care for **Sherlock's left-overs**. It keeps his heart un-empty for a few days. Then the emptiness is back, and he stops doing it.

* * *

John writes a **malicious letter to Mycroft**. There are so many things he would like to shout right into the other man's face, but then Mycroft would tilt his head just like Sherlock and deduce John's intentions just like Sherlock, and then John would have to admit that with Mycroft he feels closer to Sherlock than in anybody else's company.

He is not ready to do that right now.

So instead he writes a letter. He tells Mycroft how much he hates him. How he will never understand how such a **massive** **mastermind** like Mycroft could have been **manipulated** by **Moriarty. **How he feels** mutilated **without Sherlock by his side. How it is also Mycroft's fault that Sherlock is dead, and not only John's.

When the letter is written, John feels better for the first time in weeks. Then his heart clenches, and he feels tears sting again. He does not want to feel better. Never. **Mechanically**, he tears the letter to pieces and throws it away.

* * *

The torn state of his soul **manifests** itself in dreams that are slowly killing John. Which is good, because it is exactly what he wants right now.

In the beginning they are always painful. He dreams about the blood on the pavement, about the funeral, about the body in the **mortuary**. About how he felt the second he saw Sherlock jump. The second he knew with **mortal** sureness that he has not been able to keep Sherlock alive. That in the end, Sherlock had turned out to be merely **mortal**. That in the end John has failed to protect him.

Then the dreams become **more confusing**. He dreams about a **map** of London. In one place, it says "Sherlock" instead of "Cemetery", which makes sense. Then the letters start to move all over London, then all over the world. Which makes absolutely no sense at all.

He dreams about the funeral, only this time he does not stand motionless. Instead, he goes to the coffin and touches it. Starts tapping on it with his fingers. During the dream it makes perfect sense, but when John wakes up it no longer does. He does not understand what he has done. **Maybe**, he thinks, he has been **tapping a message in Morse code on Sherlock's coffin**. Which makes absolutely no sense, because Sherlock is dead and why should John send him a message?

He dreams about a magician with dark curls and piercing eyes. John watches his show, and **mistrusts every so-called magic trick** that is displayed. He tries to understand all the tricks and in the end, he dissects them all. Instead of becoming angry, the magician acknowledges John for it. It does not make any sense at all, does it?

He dreams about coming back home one day only to find the **mantelpiece empty**. Instead of the skull and the letters and the dead butterflies, there is a single **mark** on it. It comes from a bullet. In his dream, John simply knows that it was the bullet of a **marksman**. Only that it makes no sense. Sherlock is dead. Why would there still be marksmen around?

John plans to tell Sherlock about the dreams, the next time he will **make his monthly speech at Sherlock's marble tombstone**. At least then he would not be boring. The last months it always came down to asking him for **one more miracle**, or to calling him a **moron**, angrily wondering **what Sherlock had been thinking **when he jumped to his death in front of John's eyes.

He **muses** about how often he has called Sherlock "**my best friend**" here. Exactly as often as he should have called him "**my love**" but has not, he thinks.

No doubt Sherlock's ghost is bored already. The dreams would be something new at least. John briefly wonders if there is a heaven for consulting detectives, filled with gruesome serial killers who are really good at not making mistakes too soon.

So the next month, John talks about the dreams. While he talks, he suddenly feels like he completely **misunderstood Sherlock's motives** for jumping off the roof. He tries to hold on to that thought, tries to make some sense of it, but fails. Again, he feels like he let Sherlock down, only that this time he does not even understand why.

* * *

When it gets colder outside, John feels more **miserable** than ever before. He **misses Sherlock like crazy**. He can no longer count how often his heart has stopped because he has **mistaken someone with a dark coat and a scarf for -**

He knows this is stupid. He just cannot help it.

When Christmas comes nearer, John thinks he can no longer stand feeling broken and lost. He honestly **makes plans to join the military once more, or even a monastery**. But then he would have to leave London, and that would surely finish him completely. So he stays.

He tries to engage in some activities. He tries to **meditate**, but cannot clear Sherlock from his mind enough to gain some inner peace. He thinks about **mastering some martial arts**, but realises he will never use them, for his life is safe and dull now. He **musically maltreats his clarinet** until he remembers why he stopped playing it years ago.

He meets Greg over some **mulled** wine at the Christmas market, but then realises that alcohol is probably not the best idea right now. For drinking himself senseless is far too tempting, and he does not think he could stop his drunken self from doing something extremely stupid.

He realises that he might be in **need of a miracle**, but despite the season none happens. He visits Harry on Christmas, but spends most of the holidays thinking of **macabre** ways to end his pain. On New Year's Eve, he hears Sherlock playing the violin in his head. It is such a **magnificent** memory that he is rightfully **moping** at midnight.

* * *

For a while, everybody around him is understanding and patient. Then, in January, they start giving him advice on how to get on with his life, on how to get over Sherlock. It is a wide range of advice. "**Move out of Baker Street for a while.**" "**Move to 221C, there's not so much history there**." "Go for a date." "Buy a **mountain bike.**" "Write down your **memoirs**." "Run a **marathon**."

John smiles politely at all those advise. In reality they make him **morose**, because everybody is missing the main point: He does not want to get over Sherlock. Why in the world would he want to do that?

* * *

After a while, John starts to **meander,** like a stream. He goes on with his life, but when there is an obstacle, he simply changes his direction. He has never lived like that before and finds this newly adapted **method** strangely satisfying.

He avoids meeting Greg, for example. He cannot stand their **meaningless** chatter, cannot stand the idea of him and Molly being together. He cannot stand to see the living proof that Molly has moved on. So he rejects his invitations again and again, until Greg starts to worry and he calls John more often to check if he is all right and calls Harry, to tell her that he is concerned.

At that point, John realises that meeting Greg is easier than avoiding him, and they **manage** to go out monthly. Greg thinks this is proof of the fact that John is feeling better. John never objects, because **maintaining a façade **is easier that having them all worried.

Or take eating, for example. At a certain point John simply loses his appetite. At first, he tries to eat enough anyway, but remembering it all the time is exhausting. So he eats less and less, and frankly he does not give a damn. But Mrs Hudson does. She **marvels** at his loss of weight, cooks him lush **meals**, asks him regularly what exactly he has eaten all day long.

In the end, not eating becomes so much more exhausting than eating, and John gains weight again. He still does not give a damn about it. He only meanders.

* * *

In **March** he starts to wear a **make-believe** half-smile most of the time, and nobody seems to understand that it is nothing more than a **mask**. In reality he only plays a role, only does **mimicry**, pretending to be another, younger version of John Hamish Watson, the one who has always soldiered on.

When Harry mentions that she does not really believe he feels better because he is just too **manic**, he makes sure to appear **moody** occasionally. It works. It would not have worked with Sherlock, but he is dead, so that does not matter any longer.

Only that it does. But it should not, John knows that.

He thinks about the time when he came back from Afghanistan, and nobody saw how bad he really felt. Well, nobody except - Well, none of his old friends or family, that is. Back then, he was hurt. Now he is just glad that they leave him alone. He knows that his heart will never mend, that it is **meant to never be mended **again, but it is exactly how he wants it to be.

* * *

In April, he starts dating a lovely woman named **Mary Morstan**. She is everything Sherlock was not. She is not **mad**. She does not **go missing** all of sudden because there is a really interesting case she forgot to tell John about. She does not **macerate** chopped off fingers in the kitchen sink. She is no **mystery** to John. She never asks John to **masticate** something to confirm an alibi.

Her **mouth** is not curved like Sherlock's, her hair is fair and stick-straight. She does not have **mood-swings**, and she never needs to be saved. She wants to save John. He is not sure from what. But she **massages his tense muscles** and cooks for him and so it must be fine to be with her. She is **meek**.

He wonders if he will **mar** her, but she does not seem to mind.

Having sex with her is **mandatory**. John **makes do** with it, nothing more and nothing less. In bed, she is as **moderate** as in every day's life. And John has **not made out with someone** since … Well, since Jeanette. When he still thought dating woman would stop him from falling for his impossible flat**mate**.

And she is so well-**mannered**. At first, John thinks she **mocks** him when she cannot bring herself to say "penis". She says "your **maleness**" or "your **lonely male member**" or "your **masculinity**". One time she even calls it "your **magic wand**". When she says "**membrum virile**" he snaps and deeply shocks her by calling her vagina "vagina".

But she forgives him and is all compassionate and understanding. She says she knows what kind of loss John has suffered from. Only that she does not, of course. She knows about the friendship and the cases and the limping. But she knows nothing about the love. This may be the only things she has in common with Sherlock.

Hundreds of years ago she would have been every **minstrel's** dream, with her elegance and grace and kindness. Sherlock would hate her. But Sherlock left him and is dead, hence his opinion no longer matters.

Mary's **maxim** surely includes the word "friendly" or "patient" or "good". John does not care enough to ask. She can be described as "**merry**", and John wonders when that has stopped to be something good in his mind.

John does not love her. But she loves him, and she wants to take care for him and the **majority** of his so-called friends kind of expects him to fall for her. So he meanders again, and they are a couple by **May**.

* * *

They **move** to Kensington in August. It is a **mirthless** life, but that does not matter, as he is the only one who feels that way. Saying that he is **mainly sad **would be wrong. He barely feels anything any longer. The deep pain is replaced by a steady **melancholy**.

They do normal stuff like watching **movies**. Her favourites are "**Dial M for murder**" and a German film called "**M-Eine Stadt sucht einen Mörder**". But as she knows about the cases, she never asks John to watch a crime thriller with her.

He is still **miles away from mingling with Mycroft**, but they meet occasionally, and he no longer flies into a **murderous** range when seeing Mycroft's face. That **feeling** seems to be **mutual**. Mary meets him once, by accident. She likes him, is **mystified** by him.

John thinks he should **marry** her. Or grow a **moustache**. Or maybe both. Mary has already told him in a very polite, roundabout way that he would be a wonderful husband and probably even a wonderful father. John deeply doubts that. At least he would not have any problems with **monogamy**. Having an affair sounds far too exhausting.

Mary thinks that John would get over Sherlock faster if he wrote him a letter. John still does not want to get over Sherlock, but he does not want to argue with Mary either, so he meanders once more. Writing a letter feels wrong, and after three failed attempts, he writes an e-**mail**.

He writes down exactly what Mary wants to read: That he misses Sherlock and is still **mournful** but has started a new life now and that his memories of Sherlock will always be part of who he is and thanks him for knowing him and stuff. He obediently writes down how grateful he is that Mary nurses him of his **malady**.

He does not tell him that he always **makes sure there is enough milk in the fridge, and mince pies. **He does not say that he stopped **masturbating** because he would automatically think of Sherlock when doing it. He does not mention how he cannot stop thinking about Sherlock's slim but **muscular body** every time he embraces Mary.

Mary would not want to read that, for sure. She probably thinks **masturbating** should only be done **on Mondays in May** or something.

John sends the e-mail to Sherlock's old account. He is mildly surprised when he is not informed automatically about a mail delivery failure, but soon shrugs it off.

* * *

In September, John wakes up from the worst nightmare he has ever had. He just does not realise it right away. He has dreamt that he was sitting in a rocking chair. He was old, and he was looking at a picture of Sherlock. In his dream, he was filled with fond memories of their friendship, feeling both content and warm.

When he wakes up, the feeling lingers for a while, and when he pads into the bathroom he is still fairly happy. And then he realises ...

It crashes onto him with full force. His knees buckle, and he slides down the bathroom tiles, gasping for air, **moaning**. He realises that in his dream, he had been able to look at Sherlock's photo without being hurt. His heart has **eventually** started **mending**.

He stays inside the bathroom the whole night and cries and cries and cries.


	5. Rancorous Reunion

**Note: Thanks to the wonderful people of the bbcsherlock forum for delivering me with so many great words, all starting with R. There would be neither rejection nor rear-end collisions without you! :-)**

**Rancorous Reunion**

If Mycroft is one thing, then he is efficient. Only two hours after his desperate call, Sherlock sits in a **redirected** private jet that takes him back to London in world **record** speed. There is still some network shattering going on behind the scenes, but Sherlock is no longer part of it.

* * *

It has been a while since John has last been abducted by a black limousine. He knows that **running away** is not an option, so he gets in voluntarily on that **rainy afternoon.**

He is brought to Mycroft's home, ushered into an absurdly old-fashioned dining room, and someone takes away his **rustling raincoat**. Mycroft looks far from being **relaxed, **and less **righteous** than ever before. John would be concerned if he still felt deeply about things. Instead, he meanders along once more, sits down and waits patiently, only mildly interested in what might happen.

Mycroft starts talking, about Moriarty and Sherlock on the **rooftop** and snipers set on Mrs Hudson, Lestrade and John. About Sherlock having to die in order to save their lives. At that point, John **realises** he should feel more but he does not.

Then Mycroft **reveals** that they had known about the threat long before the confrontation on the rooftop, and John begins to **replay** his painful, final conversation with Sherlock in his head. "It's a magic trick" he **remembers** and "Stop right there!"

Oh.

* * *

Behind the door, Sherlock waits for his cue, **restless**. For more than a year, he had fantasies about their **reunion**. He thinks about how John will be angry, how he will **resort to swearing**, maybe even punch Sherlock. Or how it can be a **refreshing restart** of their **relationship**, hopefully turning it into something more **romantic**. It could start with a **repast** at a fancy **restaurant**, with **red wine** **and** **ratatouille. **

He has never imagined his **return** to be so **rueful**.

"Is he here?" he hears John voice. Only now does he realise how much he missed that voice. But it is still wrong, there is no enthusiasm in it, no tension, no anger. There is nothing in it but slight **regret**.

Sherlock's hopes fade. The **rhythm of his heart** goes wild. John is broken. His pulse hammers against his chest again and again. John is broken.

When they finally stand eye-to-eye in this absurd dining room of the house in which Sherlock grew up, John barely reacts. Sherlock's hand **reaches for him**, but stops half-way, the fear of **rejection** too strong.

Only a small, sad smile can be seen on the formerly so expressive face. "I should have known," John says gently after a long while, "I'm sorry I didn't." He shakes his head and walks away, that picture **ruthlessly** burning itself into Sherlock's brain.

* * *

John walks home through the **rain**, but still feels tense when reaching home. He is slightly **resentful**, and knows that he has good **reason** to feel that way. Why does he not feel it as deeply as he should? There is a knot in his stomach that has not been there before. Why does he not feel happy instead?

He stumbles into their living room, tells Mary all about his encounter and **receives** a warm embrace. Only then does he realise that he wants to, needs to, prove to himself that it has been real. So he retreats to the bedroom and calls him.

"I don't want to talk to you," he says when Sherlock answers his old smartphone, "so you have to do the talking." And for once, Sherlock obeys. He talks about how he faked his death, how he was secretly **relocated** after the fall, how he **revenged** Moriarty's network, he talks and talks.

After a while, the tension that built up inside of John eases. His knees buckle, and he sinks down the wall of his bedroom, tears streaming down his cheeks. He is **rendered** completely **immobile**, clings to the phone like a life-line. Sherlock's voice floats around him, this wonderful, rich voice he did not dare hope to hear ever again.

He wonders if it will be possible to **relearn** how to feel.

* * *

John needs to be **rescued**. But the **rupture of their relationship** is so profound that Sherlock honestly doubts he can **redress**, even though it would be his **responsibility**. But he has to try. And to try that, he has to **regain John's trust**. It will be hard work but it is absolutely necessary.

John **cannot be replaced** in Sherlock's life, especially not by that emotionless wreck he has become. This new version of John looks like his life can be abbreviated "**R.I.P."** He looks dead inside.

Sherlock spends two days trying to convince himself that he needs John for selfish reasons. He needs him for support, for company, for **recognising right and wrong**. In the end he has to admit that his unfulfilled **real love **has made him strangely selfless.

* * *

Returning to 221b is **rancorous**. Mrs Hudson tried to find someone who would **rent** the flat when John moved out and has therefore **renovated** nearly every room. Little does she know that her attempts were in vain as Mycroft secretly chased away every potential tenant after the **removal** of Sherlock's things.

Now the flat is like John, still the same on the outside, but without character on the inside. Sherlock's old furniture **re-emerges** from one of Mycroft's secret warehouses, is **realigned** at 221b, but it is not the same in front of that tedious yellow wallpaper. Sherlock lies on the couch for two hours, huffing at the walls, but nothing changes. He actively hates the wallpaper, so deeply he will not be surprised if he develops an **allergic rash**.

At least, returning to Mrs Hudson is **reviving** his spirits a bit. She cries and hugs him and slaps him across the cheek for being dead and kisses him on the other cheek for being alive. She makes clear that she will no longer be there to provide **room service** and then leaves to bring him tea. She does everything John should have done. It hurts. Still, it feels good.

* * *

John continues his life. Unlike Sherlock, he does not have to **re-establish a daily routine**. All he has to do is wrap his mind around the fact that Sherlock is alive. It should be easy, should it not? He **relives** Sherlock's death again and again, every night before he falls asleep, knowing now that it was all faked. He waits for relief to set in, or happiness. Instead, he still feels barely anything.

Mary seems to sense his trouble. She moves closer to him at night, **rests her head on his ribcage**, starts to caress him. Her hands wander deeper, and she starts to **rub** him, waiting for him to **get randy**. He does, or at least his body obviously does. John himself **feels rotten** for making her believe that she fulfils him.

But he is still meandering, staying in bed with her, staying in Kensington with her. Why should he not, really? He kisses her with **resolve**, trying to kiss away all thoughts about a certain formerly dead man that are sneaking their way into his brain while having sex with Mary.

When she starts talking about their future, he agrees to everything she wants.

* * *

Sherlock needs to **rewrite** his mental street maps of London. Too many changes, too many new construction sites. While he **remodels** his mental map, he passes almost every important street on feet. He knows it will take time. Lots of time. If there is a **road to rapid recovery**, it must be the opposite of the roads he is taking.

But without John and without cases, he has all the time in the world. The only alternatives are watching telly and reading. Watching telly has taught him how to **rim** your car if for some obscure reason you should feel the urgent need for a **racy ride** on wide-based tyres. Reading made him long for a cottage in the countryside to keep bees.

Both might become important at some part of his life, but not now. Now, the only truly important things are rebuilding his **reputation** and the **renaissance **of his friendship with John. Friendship. How insufficient. Sherlock is **ready for romance **now, and all it took him to find out were a few months in unbearable loneliness and misery and the complete destruction of John's soul. He is sure that even the **ravens** are looking at him in pity.

Watching too much telly has also left him thinking how handy it would be if he could just **regenerate**, come back to the world with a new face and a fresh mind. He deeply despises ties, but bow ties hold a certain fascination. But then, after regeneration, would he have to chose a new companion, too? If yes, there is no point to it.

* * *

Sherlock's first attempt to **restore his reputation** on a press conference goes terribly wrong. John watches on TV how the press lunges at the **Reichenbach** hero slash faked genius with the only intention of creating another scandal.

Sherlock appears to be much too **repressed**, **ready to run** away any second. His answers are polite, and John can only imagine what Mycroft has instructed him to say or not to say. John stares at the performance in silent horror, the way you might watch a **rear-end collision **on the other side of the street.

He still refuses to talk to Sherlock, but he calls Mycroft to find out where and when the next press event will take place. And when the press gathers in front of 221b three days later and Sherlock steps out, looking like he would prefer to be anywhere but here, John stands next to him without comment, silently **reinforcing** him. When Sherlock struggles for his **rehabilitation**, John wordlessly places his hand on Sherlock's back.

The smile he receives from Sherlock afterwards nearly makes him happy.

* * *

Mary Morstan is not stupid. When John comes home, telling her about Sherlock's miraculous **resurrection**, she knows her life with John is in danger. She listens intently when he tells her how his feelings for Sherlock cannot be **renewed**, and she realises that he is lying to himself.

She watches him closely when he slowly **recovers** from the initial shock of phoning his former friend, and it hurts her terribly. She sees that there is enough love left for his former **room mate** to hit John like a **rocket** one day if Mary does not prevent it. And she has to prevent it, for she loves John so much more than she has ever loved anyone.

The press conference in front of 221b gives her the creeps. She watches it on telly in silent horror, the way you might watch a **rear-end collision **on the other side of the street. She notices the small movement in the background. John toughing Sherlock.

A few days later she invites Sherlock over for dinner, to observe, and to their surprise he really attends. Her **confidence** is **restored** a little when she watches how stiffly the two men are treating each other, with **respect**, but reserved.

John, who has refused to talk to Sherlock until that press conference, chooses his words carefully, and she is sure that he refrains from making **rude remarks **about Sherlock's faked death at least twice.

But Mary is not stupid. She observes the way they are looking at each other out of the corners of their eyes. She knows exactly that, should both of them ever heal from being broken so deeply, she will lose John instantly.

She retreats to the kitchen where her cheeks turn **red with the rage** she hides so carefully from John. That night, they have the **roughest sex** they ever had. She even considers allowing him into her **rectum**, just to make sure he is not missing anything in bed.

She knows that it is far from being enough, and that thought makes her lie awake all night, with tears in her eyes.

* * *

When John finally comes to visit Sherlock at 221b, he gives the boring walls an **reproachful** look. He does not say much and does not stay long, and it is easy to deduce that he feels extremely uncomfortable. Sherlock needs a while to realise that it is a good thing, because it means that John starts feeling again.

But John still does not show any sign of happiness or of need for their friendship.

John refrains from doing many things he should do. He does not leave his laptop on the sofa, he does not **request the remote control**, he does not sit in his old chair that is aligned at the **right angle** so the sun can do nice things to his face. He does not take Sherlock **ravenously **on the **rag rug**, which is a shame, really, for what other purpose can this ugly rug have? He does not **ride Sherlock** wildly, he does not even **reach for his hand**.

But he is here, and that is really so much more than Sherlock could have hoped for a few weeks ago.

When he leaves, he glances at the stupidly boring wallpaper one last time.

Three days later Sherlock returns from another long walk all across the city. In front of his door, there is a plastic bag. He eyes it suspiciously. It could contain several pipe bombs. It could also contain … He hesitates briefly before opening it.

Four rolls of their old wallpaper from the living room, and three rolls of the wallpaper from the entrance hall. And several buckets of wall colour. There is a post-it attached. "**Restyling** starts Saturday at 10. Wear trousers," it reads, written down in John's neat handwriting he does not use for recipes nor medical records but for love letters or other people's shopping lists.

It does not need the world's only consulting detective to understand that it is an attempt to **restart** a friendship. **Red roses **could not have been more romantic.

* * *

On Saturday around 5 pm, 221B is strangely **reanimated**. Sherlock is very proud of himself for insulting neither Harriet nor Molly nor Greg, and Mary has not even realised how much he loathes her very existence. He has not complained about the tedious **Rock'n'Roll**-or-whatever-it-is-called music everybody insists on listening to the whole time.

He has painted a part of the wall on his own, the obscure **rhymes** of the songs **reverberating** in his head, his hair being dappled with red paint. He huffs silently at the paint, but when John sees him **redoing** the wall like that he smiles, and hence it was worth the effort.

When John retreats to the kitchen to make some coffee, Sherlock follows discretely. "Thank you" he said quietly, and John's face does this funny thing it used to do occasionally a long time ago, where his eyes get a bit cloudy and his **cheeks** turn **rosy** and his lips move in impossible ways. He is moved. He feels.

Encouraged by this deduction, Sherlock decides to take a **risk,** for he has always been a believer in the "**No risk, no fun**" hugs John. It takes a moment, but then John hugs back. Strongly. Sherlock's stomach does a wild **roller coaster ride**. John's hair does not smell like John, it smells like Mary. But he feels like John, very much so.

Mary's timing could not have been better, Sherlock **later** **reflects**, for she came in and disturbed them exactly when Sherlock started to wonder if the hug was not a little bit too long for a merely friendly hug.

* * *

Some time after **reviving** 221b, John joins Sherlock in his attempt to **redraw** his map of London. He does not want to be **available too readily**, but he has to face the truth: he missed Sherlock terribly, and with his feelings slowly coming back to normal, it seems stupid not to spend time together.

The walks through London are the perfect opportunity to **reform** their friendship. They pass a group of teenagers who is unsuccessfully trying to **raise a ruckus **at the train station, and Sherlock instantly sputters out deductions on their backgrounds. John cannot help but smile. He missed that one, too.

They watch each other out of the corner of their eyes, and John's smile widens involuntarily. It has been a long while since he felt like that. So long that he needs several minutes to identify the feeling: he is content. Maybe even a bit happy.

And with his feelings slowly coming back to normal, John must admit that he still has feelings for Sherlock. It might no longer be a passion that is burning **red-hot**, leaving him with the wish to tumble to the ground while giving Sherlock the **rough treatment** he hopefully longs for deep inside.

It is more like the wish to **ruffle Sherlock's hair,** to hold him and to tell him everything would be all right again soon.

And then **rip off that revealing rope** and tumble to the ground with him.

John sighs, and it dawns to him that his love for Sherlock is far from being over, no matter how much he thinks it should be. He realises too late that Sherlock is still brilliantly deducing him, that he can still read John's face like an open book.

His cheeks turn red, and his thumb subconsciously starts playing with his **ring finger**. Sherlock starts talking, about his time away, and how he missed John and how he had been lonely and how incredible he had been from time-to-time but John has not been there to see for himself.

Then, without warning, he makes a move sideways, towards John, and in an impossible angle and completely without warning, kisses him.

His lips are soft and warm and John's heart nearly stops and is he really kissing back? Lord, yes, definitely. John's hands have found their way into Sherlock's soft hair, and his last coherent thought is how Sherlock, without any experience, kisses so much better than Mary. Then his world is reduced to these lips and these hands and these curls for a while.

When Sherlock finally breaks the kiss to gasp for air, John realises his hands have made it all the way into his trousers and to the **rubber band **of Sherlock's pants. He lets go reluctantly, wondering how many by-passers will spread **ridiculous rumours** tomorrow. But they are alone in the alley.

"I love you," Sherlock blurts out. There are many right things John could say now.

He could tell Sherlock he loves him too, and Sherlock's eyes would light up like a **rip-roaring celebration**, and they would kiss again and would stay together for the rest of their lives in this complicated dangerous crazy perfect relationship.

He could tell Sherlock that he is still deeply wounded but slowly recovering and that Sherlock needs to be patient, and Sherlock would obey and help him heal slowly but steadily and in the end, every thing would be all right.

He could tell Sherlock that he loves him but is still angry at him for leaving without a word. They would have lots of things to figure out, but in the end, everything would be all right.

Instead, with his mind still overwhelmed from kissing and his heart still overwhelmed from loving, he says the only wrong thing there is, "I'm getting married in June. We bought the rings last week."


	6. How To Handle S Holmes

**How to handle S. Holmes**

Sherlock Holmes is lying on his sofa, analysing all the feelings that are new to him. Apparently it **hurts** when you reveal your love to someone and learn in return that he is going to marry someone else. Obviously a situation like that leaves you relatively **hopeless**.

On a certain level it is quite interesting how your **hormones** don't stop going wild when you are hopeless. All Sherlock has to do is think about John, and his feelings are doing **handstands on high-rises,** even though he knows it is futile.

Funny how you want to hide from the world when you have got a serious **heartache**. He refuses all offers brought to him by the **Hudson housekeeping service**, even when Mrs Hudson heinously includes Molly **Hooper** in her care-taking-for-poor-Sherlock-programme. He even turns down Mrs Hudson's offer of **herbal soothers** that she - of course - has only because of her **bad health**, you see, really. It is tempting, but Sherlock knows a danger month when he sees one.

Fascinating how you do not stop wondering how the **husband-to-be** is feeling now, even though he broke your heart utterly and completely only yesterday. Despite the many past cases that indicated something else, Sherlock feels no need to **hit him back**, to take revenge or to hurt him as deeply as he has hurt Sherlock.

Fourteen days later, Sherlock is still lying on that sofa, feeling lost. He considers **howling heart-rendingly**, but is too sad for that. What good is it to become the **most human human being** when all you get in return is pain?

* * *

John Watson in lying in his bed, his fiancée by his side, and he is wondering how he can feel **homesick** while being at home. Maybe **home is** really **where your heart is**. He presses closer against Mary, feeling the **heat** of her body, feeling her hand on his **hip**, but his mind does not stop spinning around Sherlock's "I love you".

He feels like all this is not fair, and really, really wishes it was not chiefly his own fault. He tries to blame it all on Sherlock, for a while. If he had only told John he was not dead but just on some weird kind of **hiatus.** If he had only told John about his feelings without **hesitation** before he faked his death. If he had only ... But for the better part of the night John is painfully aware that he caused most of the emotional **havoc** all by himself.

* * *

How do you remodel a friendship after destroying it by confessing your love after remodelling your friendship after destroying your best friend's soul by faking your death? Irritatingly enough, there is no hint to that anywhere on the internet. Neither on **homosexual** guides nor on heterosexual ones. Ridiculous. As if Sherlock were the first person with that kind of problem!

Looks like Sherlock has to make up the rules by himself. Once more. And he is no genius when it comes to love or friendship or both at the same time. Only that for one person it is only friendship and for the other it is love. But for John, he will do.

At first, he tries to take part in the wedding preparations, absolutely not because he read about that strategy in a magazine lying around at Molly's desk at the morgue. He suggests **hor d'oeuvres** for the reception, suggests serving **hot honey wine** after dinner. He suggests going to **Hungary** for **honeymoon**, doing some diving or probably **horse-riding** because, otherwise, John might get bored. But whenever Sherlock mentions anything that has to do with the wedding, John's face does unpleasant things, so Sherlock abolishes that strategy.

Then he tries to pick up their everyday life. But that is also a failure because even before Sherlock's clumsy declaration of love they were far away from having an everyday life. He invites John over to 221b, but what once was a **heavenly little hideaway** from the idiocy and the noise of the rest of the world, is now a place that makes John fidget.

But Sherlock is still even more **headstrong** than John, and he simply invites him again and again, until one day John finally stops fidgeting and feels comfortable again. Time might not heal all wounds, but it should heal some.

One evening, they sit together in renewed **harmony**, and are scanning the news for potential cases. Sherlock is not interested in hogging the headlines of London's press and so they search for a case in Scotland or Wales or wherever.

For some reason Sherlock's mind replays a line of a song he was forced to listen to when they renovated the flat. "I want**him in my house, 'cause he's my home**" his brain sings, and for a second Sherlock would be ready to admit that pop music does have a certain truth in it.

Sherlock is **hungry for **everything John's body would have to offer, or at least for **a hug**, but never mentions it. Their truce is still unstable, and for nothing in the world would he risk it again. He is still trying not to think about **homo-eroticisms** when John points out an article that could be a hoax or the most intriguing case in years. And it is in Edinburgh.

John agrees to coming along over the weekend, not with a heartfelt "**Hell, yes!**", but at least nearly without **hesitation **and without discussing it with Mary before agreeing. Sherlock's stomach does a funny little stunt. Might there still be hope?

* * *

The **hotel** Sherlock booked is expensive and elegant, and the **hospitality** of its employees is breathtaking. John has to remind himself that they are not there for a **holiday**. Well, only that somehow they are, for it is the first real case John helps Sherlock with after his return, and it does feel like holidays, even though it should be work.

He has to stop himself from smiling when they talk to the victim's sister-in-law slash potential murderer. The greenhouse they find her in is **hot and humid**, and the local police are all **hush-hush** about Sherlock's involvement but it is more fun than anything John has done in years. He did not know that he could still enjoy things that immensely.

They are **hot on her heels** later that day, running around Edinburgh, and John follows wherever Sherlock leads. He only declines when Sherlock suggests climbing onto the rooftop of a higher building to proof that mentioning St Giles' cathedral was a **red herring**.

Ever since Sherlock's fall John has no **head for heights**. He tries to keep his voice casual when confessing that one day he had been close to jumping off St Bart's too and silently curses himself when he sees Sherlock's face crumble with poorly hidden pain afterwards. John finds himself pulling him in for comfort for a moment and is not sure if he is comforting Sherlock or himself.

They work together **harmoniously** – well, Sherlock works, John follows and praises, but that is really done harmoniously – and for the first time in years John updates his blog. He thinks about tweeting the case as well, but Sherlock starts eyeing the **hashtags** John considers with scepticism, and soon they bicker over them so extendedly that John does not get topmost a tweet anyway.

The only pity is that, unlike before his hiatus, Sherlock has been considerate enough to book two single rooms. John wonders what it says about his engagement that he regrets not sharing a room with Sherlock. Nobody mistakes them for a couple or even **husbands.** Nothing an engaged man should be sorry about, right?

They inspect the **hairy** victim, and due to some blah blah deduction on the **hair remover** and the **handcuffs** hidden in the wife's dressing room and the size of her bike's **handlebar** the wife is found guilty.

After Sherlock heroically solves the case in less than 24 hours, they turn in at the **homey house bar** of the hotel, and John teaches Sherlock all he knows about whiskey. Which might be a bad idea, for after the first glass John is already having fantasies of Sherlock, giving him a **hand job** in a **hot bath** or in front of a **hearth fire**.

He drinks the second whiskey rather fast to make these thoughts go away and realises that Sherlock is still absolutely not used to drinking. His eyes are glassy and he is swaying a bit, even though they are sitting. He will have one hell of a **hangover** tomorrow, John is sure of that. It would be unfair if Sherlock were the only one suffering, so John glugs the third drink which is not **healthy** but appropriate to honour their renewed friend-, partner- or whatevership.

They have a fourth drink, which they dedicate to the benefits of knowledge about **hair care** and bicycles. After that Sherlock is so drunk that he tries to explain to John something about how **Heavy Metal** music influences the mating habits of **hedgehogs** but he keeps forgetting if it has positive effects or negative ones, and as he is too vain to admit that he simply changes his theory every second sentence. John cannot remember when he last had so much fun.

He has to guide Sherlock to bed, not an easy task, as John himself is not completely sober. A statement that holds a certain under-exaggeration. They sway up the stairs clinging to each other and Sherlock is dropped into bed rather unceremoniously. He falls asleep within seconds, mumbling something incomprehensible. Probably about **Hobbits**. The sight of Sherlock on a bed sobers John enough to contemplate his life.

_**Hmm**_, John thinks, _bad idea. _For no matter how hard he tries, he never stops regretting his engagement. This whole meandering thing has backfired on him legendarily. But he has made a promise. And when he is sober, the idea of being with Sherlock is insane, and being with Mary is not only reasonable but also nice and safe.

He only realises he has stretched out his hand to touch Sherlock's hair when it is already **halfway** there. He lets it **hover** there in mid-air and stares at Sherlock for a very, very long time before returning to his own room.

He feels like a **hostage** of his own life. How can a simple trip to Edinburgh be both heaven and hell at the same time?

* * *

Mary does not know about the declaration of love that happened some time ago and she does not know that John is experiencing **hell on earth**, torn between the promise he gave her and the love he still feels for Sherlock.

But she knows that John is even more thoughtful than usual when she **holds his hand**, that he barely looks at her before **hugging** her, that he sneaks into the bathroom early in the morning to get rid of his **hard-on** instead of sleeping with her. She knows that something is bound to go terribly wrong.

Hence, the email she receives from Sherlock Holmes hits her completely by surprise. She reads it once, thinks about it, reads it a second time. She has to admit that she has **hardly ever **got an email weirder than this one.

For a **heartbeat**, she thinks Sherlock is really trying to be **helpful**. Then her heart **hardens** and she reads it a third time. No, it is far from being helpful. Half of it is simply wrong, the rest is insulting or **histrionic**.

She prints it out anyway, then stores it in a safe **hiding place**, wondering what is going on in Sherlock's Holmes' weird mind.

* * *

John stumbles over the email accidentally. He is looking for Mary's copy of **Harry Potter**. **Harriet** asked for it some days ago, and as his fiancée keeps forgetting it, he decides to bring it along when visiting his sister tomorrow.

Mary has many wonderful **habits**, but keeping her study tidy is not one of them. John searches the piles of books, sheets of papers and letters, **honestly** wondering why it pleases him to know that his otherwise perfect fiancée has such an obvious character flaw. Then something catches his eye.

He has seen the words "Sherlock Holmes" somewhere. Intrigued, he looks at the pile once more **hastily** and quickly finds the print-out of an email, about one month old. He eyes the head of it curiously.

_From: Sherlock Holmes_

_To: Mary Morstan_

_Re: How to handle John H. Watson_

John reads the two pages of the email. Then he reads them again, this time with trembling **hands**. He had though that he has become somewhat **hardy** over the course of the last months, but now a lump forms in his throat.

The email contains a list of twenty points one apparently needs to take into consideration in order to provide **happiness** for John. Some of the points are **hilarious**, some are heart-warming, some are ridiculous. All of them prove how well Sherlock still knows John, no matter how much he has changed.

John sinks to the ground, reads the email one more time, thinking that this is the most selfless thing Sherlock has ever done. Even more selfless than jumping off St. Bart's. It pierces through his heart like a **harpoon**, leaves his **head and heart** swaying.

He sits on the carpet of Mary's study for hours, just feeling the emotional overflow he thought he was incapable of having any longer. When Mary comes in, her eyes fall onto the email in John's hand, and he can tell from the look in her eyes that she knows. She understands instantly that she has lost him.

"Point 20 says that you should have kept this email away from me," he says and her glance gets **hostile**. They fight for a while but they both know that it is their last stand anyway.

"Look at point 2, or 3. That's not you he is writing about! Does he even know you?" Mary shouts, and John thinks that Sherlock is not ranting about the man John has become, the one that meanders when things get rough, the one John **hates **from time-to-time. No, Sherlock has written the email about the man John used to be. The man Sherlock believes is still alive inside of new John, somewhere deep, deep inside. The man who stood beside Sherlock's bed in Edinburgh, hand outstretched.

"And what about point 7? Or 9? Those only show that he is not taking it serious at all," she continues, and John looks at points 7 and 9 again, even though he already knows them by heart. They still make him giggle, probably not the best thing to do while fighting with your soon-to-be ex-fiancé.

He feels the urge to say aloud that point 17 and 18 are absolutely true but refuses, mostly because they are quite insulting for Mary. Instead, he reads the end of the letter once more.

"_As I am the one who broke him, it should be me attempting to do the mending, but he has made his decision on that topic clear. You are not perfect for the job, but then, neither am I. You will be unable to give him what he needs concerning points 3, 4, 8 and most likely 18. Do not be alarmed, I have failed at points 5, 9, 10 and12 on a regular basis and his feelings for me have never changed. It is only point 19 that will be unforgiven."_

God, he loves Sherlock more deeply than he thought.

About two hours later, John **hurries** to Baker Street, **hitch-hiking** to Hanover Gate because finding a cab in this part of Kensington would take much too long, then running the rest of the way, feeling like he is taking part in a **hurdle race. Hundreds** of thoughts are running wildly inside his head. He pushes away pedestrians who are **hindering** him, runs up the stairs of 221b, taking two steps at the time – and finds the entire **house empty**.

Now that is anti-climatic. He fumbles for his mobile, and sends Sherlock a text, "Where are you?"

Only seconds pass, and the answer comes in, "Hampton Crescent, Gravesend, **hunting criminals**. Where are you?"

"At home," John writes, and adds, just to make sure Sherlock gets the point for he is not a genius when it comes to love, "or so I **hope**. 221b."

"Wait," Sherlock's next text reads. Then nothing. In his mind, John can see Sherlock frantically looking for a cab. He smiles, and starts searching the flat for a post-it and a pen.

* * *

Never before has it been so tempting to ask Mycroft for **help**. A **helicopter **would do, or road barriers to keep the direct route from Gravesend to Baker Street free of traffic. Or some **hand grenades** to handle the annoyingly slow commuters in front of the cab.

After thirty minutes Sherlock is close to **hysteria**. His heart is beating so hard Sherlock is sure it is **hazardous to his health** and they are still too far away from home. "**Hang on,**" he tells himself, but knows that he will not listen. He plays with the wristbands of the **hoodie** he wears as a disguise, tearing the seam apart.

He reads John's text again and again, until he is no longer sure that he is not **hallucinating **or if it is really proof of John's homecoming. He huffs at the **hateful** traffic, but they do not go any faster.

When he finally reaches home, he is nearly **hyperventilating**, but is still not sure if **with** **happiness** or with fear. He jumps up the stairs, opens the door with shaking hands – and finds John sleeping on the sofa. His face is more relaxed than Sherlock has seen it in months, and he looks at least five years younger than only last week.

In front of him, on the coffee table, there is a two page print-out. Sherlock's email to Mary. Attached to his carefully collected list of twenty points to ensure John's happiness in the incapable hands of Mary Morstan there is a post-it. "How to handle S. Holmes" is written on top of it, and at the bottom it reads "**Handle with care!**", not in John's **hardly legible **doctor's** handwriting** but in his love letter and shopping list handwriting.

Sherlock's heart feels like it is **having hiccups**. The list of how to handle Sherlock includes only two points. It reads:

_Forgive him._

_Love him._

Behind each point, John has drawn a little box. Both boxes are ticked.

Sherlock stares down at the wonderful man who has forgiven him all the **heinous deeds** of the last two years and who loves him and who is sleeping on his sofa now. And he has absolutely no idea what to do, now that his **highest hopes** have been fulfilled.

He does not know what he should do, but he knows exactly what he wants to do. He sits down and reaches out to stroke John's **hair**. It looks so soft, but is wiry and strong. Just like John himself. John stirs and opens his eyes. And smiles.

"**Hello**," he says plainly, and Sherlock's **hard-drive** starts saving every detail on John's face and the look in his eyes and the curve of his mouth right now. How can someone not think that John is the most **handsome** being in the world? He feels like having **hay fever **and a **heart attack **at the same time. He still stares at John when he sits up.

"I don't know what to do with you," Sherlock confesses, and John's smile widens. Of course, John knows what to do, and so Sherlock generously lets him take the lead.

Sherlock closes his eyes when John reaches out to touch his face, for seeing him AND feeling him would be simply too much to handle. So he just feels, feels these soft fingers slowly caressing his face, floating from his forehead to his cheekbones to his ears before cupping his face. He feels John's thumb gliding over his upper lip, then over his lower lip, and it is the most erotic thing someone has ever done to his face.

Then there is a change in the light that hits his closed eyes, a shift of weight on the sofa. John is leaning closer, and Sherlock tries to brace himself for what is about to happen. John's **healing ****hands** slide to his neck, pulling him in, gently pressing their lips together, and the sexual **hunger** that suddenly rises inside of Sherlock surprises only himself.

He has spent hours thinking about that helpless kiss in the alleyway two months ago, and realises, only now, how poor it has been compared to this one. **Heroin** has never made him feel **higher** than this. John's lips are **hot** and strong and soft and completely incomprehensible, and he finds his own hand doing things to John's back that make John moan.

When they break the kiss after a long, long time, they are both gasping for air. Sherlock is so **horny** he would have sex in a **haystack** if nothing else would be available, and he is **happy** and fulfilled and content with life for the very first time and happy. John is his **hero of the hour**, and he himself is still completely lost regarding what to do next.

But John is not. John knows exactly what to do next, and he does. More than once that night.

* * *

**Author's note: What, you really want to know about the content of that email? In that case I suggest you wait a little for the second part of the series to be written. Won't be long. :-)**

**Immense thanks to all those who have contributed the words for each chapter, and to all those of you who left reviews and kudos. **

**Special thanks to Davina for beta-ing all of it, sometmes twice, with endless patient, and to those I've already thanked personally for support, praise and encouragement!**


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